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Far out on the marsh an occasional gabble of goose talk could
just be heard above the unceasing howl of a late November gale.
The eastern sky wanted to lighten but, for almost an hour, dawn
fought a losing battle against louring black clouds which scudded
across the heavens in the teeth of the tempest. With Moy trying
to coorie close for shelter, I crouched in the parsimonious lee
of a shallow gully hoping that, on this morning of all mornings,
the pinkfeet might revert to their old flightline. Twenty years
earlier I could have been sure that, on just such a day, the
geese would rise from their roost and follow the course of the
river channel but, due to greatly increased shooting pressure in
recent times, their behaviour had become much less predictable.
The reason for so badly wanting to be under the pinks that
morning was cradled lovingly in my lap. Instead of being armed
with my familiar Beretta, I had chosen the first real storm of
the season to take out the larger of two guns which Patrick Keen
had entrusted to my tender care for a couple of months. With its
massive 44" barrel, the 4-bore by E.M. Reilly would be
utterly wasted on any quarry other than foreshore geese so I
prayed that the great grey birds would favour me with an
opportunity to use it.
In the darkness a party of wigeon streaked over with the wind in
their tails. Under other circumstances I might have risked a snap
shot at their fleeting forms as, in such wild conditions, the
report of a gun would not disturb the pinkfeet which still
paddled on the distant mudflats. With only two cartridges at my
disposal, however, there was no way in which I was going to waste
almost a quarter pound of lead on mere duck. Even Moy seemed to
understand and I was spared the reproachful glance which she
normally cast in my direction if she felt that a good chance had
been allowed to pass.
Eventually the geese decided that they could wait no longer for
sunrise. The first few groups lifted from the mud and headed
along the shore before turning to cross the sea wall half a mile
to the west. Then the main body of the flock rose into the sky
and sorted itself out into several ragged skeins which battled
landwards against the raging storm. For a few moments I gripped
the gun tighter, watching the nearest geese as they seemed to
come in my direction. But, before the birds reached my gully,
they wheeled right and passed 100 yards along the shore.
Several little parties of stragglers came close before turning to
follow the path of their fellows and I feared that my journey had
been in vain. I was on the point of removing the 4"
cartridge from the chamber of the mighty gun when Moy's tail
began to thump against my wadered leg. Looking seawards I saw a
pair of pinks over the turbulent brown water of the river
channel.
In almost every branch of shooting sport the enjoyment to be
derived from the pursuit is greatly enhanced when each Gun is
accompanied by a well trained gundog. Wherever shooting men or
women gather, it is almost inevitable that, sooner or later, the
conversation will drift towards the subject of dogs and tales
will be told of brilliant canine companions which possess powers
well beyond those normally attributed to any dumb animal.
Alternatively, the stories may centre upon less virtuous gundogs
- always belonging to other people - which have committed the
most atrocious misdemeanours.
The relationship between man and dog is an integral part of the
shooting scene and nowhere is it more intense than on a wild
marsh at morning flight. When waiting patiently for the first
pale grey streaks of dawn to herald the start of another day,
when listening to the murmuring of wakening geese far out on the
remote saltings, when sheltering from the cruel fury of a
midwinter storm, then is the companionship of a faithful
retriever most valued. When, after that long vigil, a shot duck
or goose drops into fast-flowing water, the ability of a good
gundog to swim strongly and pick the bird is absolutely
indispensable.
Meg was a thickset black labrador which really lived for
wildfowling. In her later years, if put into a pheasant covert,
she would have cleared the wood of birds in minutes or, should a
hare have risen in front of her nose while walking-up partridge,
it would have been coursed into the next county. Her faults were,
of course, due entirely to shortcomings on my part. Having read
all of the books on gundog training, I tutored the little bitch
through her puppyhood and then, delighted with the results,
became complacent. Her skills thereafter developed by chance
rather than by design so that, after a few seasons of steady
all-round work, she grew less reliable in the game shooting field
but graduated to become an absolute mistress of the saltmarsh.
There is undoubtedly a considerable element of chance involved in
the acquisition of any gundog puppy. Essential features such as a
good nose and soft mouth are probably genetically determined and,
without those inborn attributes, no amount of careful training
will produce a worthwhile retriever. Fortunately, Meg had an
exceptional sense of smell and, so gentle was she when carrying
any object in her mouth, she could be sent to pick up an egg and
would deliver it to hand unbroken. Her senses of sight and
hearing also were quite remarkable so that, all in all, the
qualities which enabled her to perform such outstanding service
on more than 600 fowling expeditions had little to do with my own
early attempts at gundog training.
On occasions without number, while waiting expectantly for the
pinkfeet to rise from their roost, Meg's keen ears would pick up
the first strains of goose music from the distant heavens and the
wagging of her thick tail was the signal to grip the gun a little
tighter. When cosily ensconced in a deep gutter, she would sit
facing me, her sharp eyes constantly scanning the dark sky over
my shoulder. Time and time again she froze to attention and gave
an unfailing warning of mallard approaching silently from behind.
And then, if the shot was successful, she would be off to collect
the slain quarry, her nose leading her to the fallen bird with
unerring accuracy.
**********************************************
Where the dunes narrow and meet the shore of the outer estuary, a
little reed-fringed depression in the sand fills with water at
each tide. One morning, many years ago, two members of the
wildfowling club arrived at the spot and discovered more than 200
geese having a wash and brush-up in the shallows. Although the
phenomenon was never repeated, that small tidal lake became known
as the "goose pool".
The sandhills overlooking the pool provided an ideal hiding place
for a waiting gunner and, if the pinks were roosting far out on
the flats, their flightline might be directly over his head.
With that possibility in mind, I had risen very early and taken
Meg from her kennel. Under the harsh sodium lights of the quiet
village streets nothing moved and we travelled eastwards along
deserted country roads. In the market town the first signs of a
new day were beginning to show. A squad of cleaning ladies waited
for the caretaker to open up the ancient oak doors of the school
and a mailvan stood outside the post office, its exhaust
billowing white in the cold morning air. Another few miles of
empty highways and then we met a sudden flurry of activity as the
nightshift spilled out of the mill at the head of the river.
Turning down the narrow forest track it was with an element of
selfish satisfaction that I noted no other tyre marks in the
glistening covering of hoar frost. Around the gamekeeper's
cottage sleepy pheasants perched in the conifers like fairy
lights on a Christmas tree but those birds aroused no sense of
excitement on a morning when the pursuit of a nobler quarry was
in prospect.
Stars still twinkled brightly in the clear black sky as I
released Meg from the back of the car and swiftly climbed into
overtrousers, wellingtons and a warm camouflaged jacket. Then,
checking that there was an ample supply of cartridges in my
pocket and that the car doors were securely locked, I whistled
the dog to heel and strode out along the well-worn path through
the dunes towards the shore. Only the merest breeze ruffled the
long coarse grass and, with the better part of a mile still to
walk, the faint strains of goose talk greeted my ears.
Spurred on by the welcome sound, I hastened my pace and allowed
Meg to hunt ahead as we progressed. Twice she put up rabbits from
in front of her nose and stood, stock still, watching them bolt.
The thought may have been entirely fanciful but I credited the
fact that she did not give chase, as she normally would have
done, to some knowledge on her part about the real purpose of the
outing.
When, at last, the goose pool was reached, I crept cautiously
over the sand to find a hiding place in the reed fringes. The
eastern sky was just beginning to take on an indigo hue as, with
Meg now keeping very close, I settled down to await dawn.
Although the pinkfeet were fully 400 yards out on the flats,
their music seemed to surround me and, anticipating an excellent
flight, I guessed that there must be upwards of 1000 birds on the
roost.
Without a strong wind or stormy sea to disturb their leisure, the
geese were in no hurry to leave the foreshore that morning. Ever
so slowly the world lightened and the estuary came awake. The
first birds to move were herring gulls which travelled silently
landwards, no doubt to seek out and follow an early tractor
ploughing the barley stubbles. Then, singly and in pairs, crows
descended upon the shoreline, their raucous cawing rudely
disturbing the tranquil scene as they searched for morsels
amongst the seaweed at high water mark. When the golden orb of
the sun poked above the far horizon, woodpigeon came out from the
forest and dropped down to the sands to replenish the supply of
grit in their crops before departing inland again for their
breakfast.
Still the pinkfeet did not move. At one stage a sudden movement
of Meg's head caused me to look behind and I simultaneously sank
lower into the reeds and gripped the gun tighter as three
long-necked shapes registered on the periphery of my vision.
Before the safety catch had been slipped forward, however, the
birds revealed themselves as cormorants. How often, I wondered,
had those evil-looking fisheaters caused a wildfowler's pulse to
quicken in vain?
I remembered other mornings when, under similar conditions, it
had been a full hour after sunrise before the geese rose from the
shore. My vigil that day might have been equally protracted had
not a helicopter from the nearby airfield appeared in the sky. It
is a strange matter that the fowl are able to ignore jet fighters
streaking over their heads but become greatly disturbed if a
whirlybird approaches within half a mile. Protesting noisily, the
huge flock took to the air and, like a dense dark cloud, headed
low over the sand towards me.
Conscious of the adrenalin affecting my heart-rate, I crouched
low, trying desperately to attain invisibility in my sparse reed
haven. Then everything seemed to go wrong. With the first birds
directly overhead, I sprang up and pulled the trigger. Missed!
Swinging on to another goose I pulled again but the firing pin
fell impotently on to the primer and the cartridge did not
detonate. Birds were streaming over my position as I fumbled to
remove the dud shell and insert another round into the upper
chamber of my gun but, in my haste, I dropped the cartridge into
the water at my feet.
By the time that I had succeeded in reloading, the skein was well
out of range and I muttered a string of curses at the lost
opportunity. Then I noticed that Meg's eyes were still firmly
fixed on the departing pinks and, following the direction of her
gaze, I saw one of the birds falter and begin to lose height.
Without waiting for a command, the little bitch took off and
raced out of sight into the sand dunes. She was away for fully 10
minutes and I had removed the cartridges from the gun, buckled it
into its sleeve and was considering whether to set out in search
of her when she re-appeared over the crest of the nearest dune,
clutching the fat goose in her tender jaws. It is a cardinal rule
of wildfowling that, whenever one appears to suffer an
inexplicable miss, the birds should be watched vigilantly until
they are out of sight. A wounded goose can carry on flying for a
considerable distance before dropping from the skein and, if it
has been hit, every effort must be made to retrieve it. That
morning, in my dejection, I had failed to abide by the rule but
Meg saved both the day and the bird.
**********************************************
Meg was turning decidedly grey around the muzzle when Moy arrived
upon the scene. The younger, slimmer bitch was entirely different
in almost every respect and, from the beginning, demonstrated the
potential to become and remain a top class gundog. Admittedly I
took considerably greater care with her training but this was
aided by a degree of overt dependence whereby her whole life,
outside the kennel, was dedicated to pleasing her lord and
master. Although her temperament in this respect was a huge bonus
when shooting grouse or pheasant, it had a number of
disadvantages below the sea wall. For example, while patiently
awaiting morning flight, she spent her time watching me rather
than scanning the sky for approaching duck. Only when a shot was
fired would her eyes turn to mark down the falling bird and then,
unlike Meg, she remained rock steady until sent to retrieve.
Despite Meg's advancing age there was a period of several years
when both labradors accompanied me on fowling expeditions. If
either Peter or Leon came along, bringing their own dogs, then
the pack of black labs present would frequently exceed the number
of duck or geese to be retrieved.
During this time we tended to favour the north shore of one of
the larger estuaries and, although the trip entailed a fairly
long drive, there were few Saturday mornings when Leon, with Foss
occupying most of the space in the rear of his van, did not pick
me up at some really unearthly hour. I very much doubt if dogs
relate to each other in the same way as people do but, on those
early morning forays, it always seemed that Meg and Foss were the
closest of friends while Moy remained aloof, appearing to prefer
human company.
Some of those mornings were spent at a spot halfway along the
shore of the Firth where a public road ran down almost to the
water's edge. Cars could be parked close to a small natural
harbour and fowlers would walk along the top of the broad sea
wall in either direction to find a hiding place in the dense belt
of reeds which lined high water mark. In many respects this was
"tame" wildfowling as it was very common to return from
a flight without ever having stepped on to soft mud nor crawled
along a flooded gutter. The attraction of that place derived not
only from the ease of access but also from the fact that, a few
hundred yards offshore, lay several long mudbanks which were
covered by only the highest spring tides. If undisturbed, geese
would roost on those banks and, when flighting off at dawn, might
pass over the grassy sea wall just within shotgun range.
It is tempting, years later, to look back on those days with a
measure of disdain, feeling perhaps that wilder opportunities to
do business with the fowl should have been sought. They were,
however, pleasant outings during which there was much to be seen.
While seated comfortably against a banking, sheltered from the
wind, wrens, goldcrests and a variety of tits might be watched as
they flitted amongst the swaying stalks of the high reeds. In
midwinter, when natural feeding was scarce, those tiny birds lost
all caution and would come within a few feet of an armed
wildfowler to hungrily devour a carelessly dropped sandwich crumb
or other titbit. As daylight strengthened, great flocks of
fieldfares swooped low over the foreshore, their
"chack-chack" calls mingling with the whoosh of a
thousand wings. Sometimes teal might unwittingly drop into the
ditch which ran behind the sea wall and then, discovering that
they had unwelcome human company, spring vertically into the air
to effect their escape. Little did those diminutive duck know
that, although only a few yards above high water mark, they were
safe from the guns of shore-bound fowlers. Less secure were the
pheasants which occasionally strayed from the adjacent estate on
to the shore. Much to the chagrin of the laird's gamekeeper, as
soon as his precious charges crossed the tideline, they became
legitimate quarry and, on mornings when the greylag skeins had
passed too high or too wide, consolation might be obtained in the
form of an errant longtail.
Unfortunately, but perhaps inevitably, the lure of the geese
roosting on the mudbanks grew too tempting for some fowlers and
it became common practice for boats to be taken out before dawn
from the town on the south shore of the estuary. Then, instead of
the chirping of small birds and the piping of waders, the early
morning silence was rudely broken by the sound of outboard motors
revving in mid-channel. Not surprisingly, the area was soon
forsaken by the geese and, to the best of my knowledge, they have
not returned to that part of the Firth in the numbers which Leon
and I used to see.
Knowing that the great grey flocks were still in the general
vicinity, we explored farther east and eventually discovered that
the greylag were frequenting the wide mudflats of a large bay
some seven miles along the shore. The terrain was so treacherous
that, at low tide, no-one could approach within three-quarters of
a mile of the roost and, in those circumstances, only a force-8
gale would cause the birds to remain within gunshot range as they
flighted inland to feed. For this reason we normally timed our
visits to coincide with a flowing tide in the hope that the greys
would begin their daily journey from a point closer to the narrow
belt of saltmarsh which skirted the shoreline. That bay was the
scene of one of the few sorties when the services of Meg, Moy and
Foss were required simultaneously.
Pulling in to a disused farm track, Leon switched off the engine
of his rusting van and, immediately, we could hear the calling of
greylag close to hand. Despite the sky still being pitch black,
we feared that the geese might flight early so, without wasting
any time, we donned our thigh waders and waxproofs and hurried
down to the foreshore.
It was a bitterly cold January morning with the merest smattering
of powdery snow clinging to each blade of grass on the hard,
rutted marsh. Even where the tide had washed only a few hours
earlier, the penetrating chill of midwinter had crispened the
surface of the saltings so that each footstep crunched in the
darkness. Drawn ever onwards by the anserine chorus, we at last
found our progress blocked by the deep gully of a stream which
meandered parallel to the sea wall before turning out to join the
waters of the estuary. Knowing that the flock of greylag was not
more than 300 yards in front, we sought cover in the reeded
verges of the little river and settled down to await the coming
of daylight.
Despite two layers of thick thermal stockings my feet were soon
numb with the cold and my beard grew brittle as condensation
froze in it at every breath. When a yellow and purple false dawn
changed, quite abruptly, to the weak pinks and blues of a new
morning the temperature seemed to drop a few more degrees and I
began to have a serious concern that my fingers might be
incapable of operating the safety catch and trigger of my gun.
Happily the geese did not tarry unduly on the shore that day.
Well before sunrise they grew restless and, perhaps spurred into
early flight by the sub-zero conditions, rose from the frozen
mudflats in a single skein which came towards us fast and low.
Because the long line of greys was little more than 20 yards
high, it was possible for the shots to be taken while they were
still well out in front. Presented with such an ideal
opportunity, no mistakes were made and Leon and I were rewarded
with one of the very rare achievements of a right-and-left each.
Indeed, I cannot think of any other morning when we concurrently
scored a double.
One of my birds dropped into the water of the stream while the
other three fell on the far side of the gully. Without waiting to
be sent, Meg lept into the river and, pushing iceflows aside with
her muzzle, paddled out to collect the floating greylag. I sent
Moy to pick my other goose and, as she swam across towards the
opposite bank, I noticed that Foss was already preparing to
re-enter the water with the first of Leon's birds in his mouth.
Its amazing how jubilation banishes discomfort. Once all four
geese had been retrieved, we stood for several minutes discussing
the flight and scanning the distant mud for any sign of more fowl
before turning to leave the marsh. That was when we became aware
that, instead of three black labradors, we were accompanied by
dogs which had turned white. Millions of tiny ice crystals
sparkled in their thick coats yet they did not appear to be in
the least troubled by their condition. It is little wonder that
labradors are so popular as wildfowling dogs - their evolution in
the arduous climate of Newfoundland has fitted them perfectly to
cope with the extremes of our own winters.
The next few years witnessed a marked expansion of my kennel. Moy
produced an excellent litter of pups, two if which - Flight and
Teal - remained with me until their training was complete and
gave a great deal of pleasure before going off to work for other
sportsmen. Another of that litter, Spartan Lady, was trained by
Jim Munro to achieve high honours in the field trial world,
including two remarkable performances in the British Retriever
Championship. Much as I enjoyed putting young dogs through their
schooling, however, I never seemed to have time to become
personally involved in competitive activity. My principal
criterion for judging a labrador remained its prowess on the wild
marsh.
**********************************************
A north-easterly blast almost took my breath away as I stepped
out of the house into the wintry blackness and crossed to the
kennel. Moy was in season so, rather than risk any unwelcome
encounters with canine males, I opted to take Meg out on her own.
The destination was a point on the south shore of the estuary
where, according to local rumour, there might be a chance of
getting under a smallish flock of greylag.
It was still very dark when we arrived and despite her 14 years,
Meg transmitted obvious signs of pleasure at being out and about
before dawn although, as we walked down the grass track towards
the shore, she stayed closer to heel than normal.
"You're slowing down, old girl," I told her,
remembering the many mornings a decade earlier when I was happy
to see her coursing through the long grass, chasing rabbit scents
and running off her surplus energy before squatting down for a
long wait on the saltings.
We found a likely spot near the river channel and built a low
wall of seaweed behind which to hide. Wigeon were whistling as
they passed unseen against the inky firmament and, once or twice,
the single quack of a mallard brought the elderly labrador to
rigid attention. Just as the sky was beginning to turn that apple
green hue which so often precedes a winter dawn, I noted two
other fowlers moving into position a couple of hundred yards to
the east.
Almost an hour elapsed before the greys which were roosting out
on the mudflats decided to move. With my face pressed close to
the odorous weed, I watched them follow the course of the river
and then wheel south while still out of range of my hide. Then
two shots sounded over the estuary and one bird fell from the
skein, dead in the air.
As it was reasonably certain that no more geese remained on the
shore I picked up my bag and walked over to greet the other men.
The tide had been flowing steadily throughout our time on the
marsh and I found the two fowlers standing at what was, in
effect, the edge of the North Sea. It transpired that they were
father and son and it was the younger, a lad of about 16, who had
shot the greylag. Unfortunately the bird had dropped into the
river, had floated downstream and was now bobbing in the waves a
good 50 yards away.
Doubting if Meg would be able to see the goose floating low in
the water, I put a cartridge into the lower chamber of my Beretta
and fired it in the general direction of the dead bird. The old
dog required no second telling - she took to the sea and swam out
for 20 or 30 yards before looking back for a directional signal.
A wave of my left arm sent her on the correct course and she soon
spotted the goose, made straight for it and, as she had done
dozens of times before, scooped it into her jaws as she turned
back towards the shore.
I watched anxiously as she appeared to make rather heavier
weather than normal of the return journey for I knew that, having
picked the bird, she would drown before she would let it go.
Eventually she reached dry land and placed the greylag at my feet
before shaking herself. The young lad was overjoyed at the
retrieval of his goose and his father explained that it was the
first grey he had ever shot.
Then I noticed that Meg was shivering violently. After removing
my camouflaged waxproof, I took off my pullover and used the
woollen garment to give her a good rub down. Sensing that all was
not well with her, I told the father and son that I had better
get her home as quickly as possible and took my leave of them.
Because I was obliged to stop every now and then to allow Meg to
catch up with me, it took quite a long time to reach the parking
place and I had to lift the poor wee bitch bodily into the boot
of the car. Snuggling down on top of my coat and gamebag she
looked gratefully into my eyes and feebly wagged her tail.
As there was not much traffic on the roads I completed the
journey in less than an hour but, when I arrived home and lifted
the tailgate of the Volvo, I discovered that Meg was dead. She
had passed away on a cold winter's morning within 90 minutes of
retrieving her last goose.
That afternoon I returned to the estuary, travelling down the
well-worn forest road to reach the sand dunes on the north shore.
It was a place where, during her younger years, I had spent
countless happy hours with Meg so I buried her on top of the
highest dune at a spot which overlooked miles of wild foreshore.
I then sat for a long, long time, staring out to sea and
remembering the many wildfowling exploits which the faithful
labrador had shared with me.
The richest of those memories were of days when she and I were
alone on the marsh and, huddled together with our backs to a
January storm, I had felt that we were a million miles from the
civilised world. Those were times before she decided that her own
instincts were more reliable than my commands. Yet, looking back,
I knew that those instincts invariably led to a successful
retrieve even if I had doubts as to whether a bird had actually
been hit.
I appreciated then that a chapter in my wildfowling career had
drawn to a close and, although Moy was to give many more years of
loyal service and other dogs would capture my affection, I have
never since experienced the unbelievable degree of true
comradeship which Meg provided so consistently during those
pre-dawn hours on a dark estuary. She was a labrador who shared
the very spirit of fowling.
**********************************************
Just as many wildfowling adventures are rendered memorable by the
dogs which featured in them, so too can others be readily
recalled by virtue of the guns which contributed to their success
or failure. There must be few fowlers who have not suffered, at
some stage in their lives, from the affliction of
"gunitis", a disease which affects the mind rather than
the body and for which there is no cure other than painful
experience. Most commonly the ailment stems from a desire to
extend the range of one's armament so that those high-flying
geese or duck might be brought tumbling from the heavens. I
wonder how many devotees of the sport have had cause to look back
and, with the benefit of hindsight, wish that they had kept faith
with the very first shotguns they owned.
There are, of course, other reasons for shooting with a variety
of guns. Many of us had no alternative but to set out in the
sport armed with a handed-down gun or an inexpensive secondhand
model. Perhaps, as our bank balances permitted, we would seek to
upgrade to a better finished or more reliable weapon.
Occasionally, too, the opportunity might arise to acquire a
particularly interesting fowling piece or emulate the longshore
gunners of yesteryear by shooting with a muzzle loader or
large-bore hammer gun.
In my own case, all three causes played their respective parts in
the passage of many different shotguns through my hands but, in
retrospect, I fear that only a few of that veritable arsenal
really earned their keep. Rapidly discarded were a Spanish
sidelock which never really fitted me, a semi-automatic magnum
which malfunctioned more often than not, an over-and-under from
Japan which kicked like a mule and a 3-shot 10-bore which,
although very effective, cost a small fortune to feed with
expensive ammunition. Despite those failures, there have been one
or two guns which carry memories of excellent service or which,
in themselves, were of such intrinsic interest as to warrant
mention.
One morning, not long before that day when Meg, Moy and Foss all
turned white with frost, Leon and I had been shooting on the
estuary and my performance with the ill-fitting Spanish sidelock
had been so poor that I came off the shore completely scunnered
with the gun. Without even stopping to clean the condemned
weapon, we drove into the city and sat outside a gunshop waiting
for it to open. Right on the stroke of 9 o'clock the owner
arrived and, as soon as the front door was unlocked, he had a
customer enquiring about a trade-in. I must have handled most of
the shotguns in the shop, including many which were well out of
my price range, before selecting a beautifully finished
over-and-under by Beretta of Italy.
That very afternoon, with the new gun carefully protected in a
padded slip, I went to the smaller estuary in the hope of seeing
some duck. Arriving earlier than necessary, some time was spent
in rebuilding a cairn of stones which, years before, an
enterprising fowler had erected to give a modicum of cover on an
otherwise featureless shore. With that task completed, I crouched
down behind my artificial hide to await dusk.
As daylight slowly faded some shelduck took to the air and
circled confidently over the inner basin before re-alighting on
an area of mud which had been newly uncovered by the ebbing tide.
Little parties of redshank flew upriver, their shrill piping
carrying clearly in the still air. I hurriedly removed the No.6
cartridges from the pristine chambers of my new gun and replaced
them with No.3's when the sound of pinkfeet descended upon the
foreshore. For a minute I scanned the far horizon for the source
of the goose music but, as the wavering skein finally came into
view, I saw that the pinks were about 300 yards high. They did
not lose height until well out over the sands and it was
pleasing to note an absence of gunfire, signifying that no
wayward gunner had dug-in on their roost.
Placing the lighter loaded cartridges back in the gun, I had to
wait another 30 minutes or so before any duck flighted within
range but, when they did, it was in classic style. First of all a
spring of 13 or 14 teal zipped overhead and, so sudden was their
appearance, there was time for only a single shot before they
passed by. Moy had no sooner retrieved the fallen cock when three
mallard came low over the mud, a single duck leading two drakes.
The Beretta barked twice and the female and one drake fell to the
ground. A few more mallard flighted inland but none of those
ventured sufficiently close to draw a shot then, just as the last
light began to fail, a solitary whistle attracted my attention.
Glancing over my left shoulder I was almost too late for the
group of four wigeon which sped past in the wrong direction but,
throwing the over-and-under up and squeezing the trigger once, I
was mildly surprised to see the hindmost bird collapse and drop
to the mud.
On and on they came, their progress slowed by the wind, until
they appeared to be motionless in the sky 40 yards above my
hiding place. I pulled back the huge hammer of the 4-bore, rose
to my feet and swung the long damascus barrel through the body,
neck and head of the leading bird. Then everything seemed to
happen in slow motion.
As the trigger was pulled I distinctly heard the fall of the
hammer on the striking pin, was aware of a cruel thump against my
shoulder, tried to take a step backwards to keep my balance but,
with feet stuck in the soft mud, failed to do so. The pall of
black powder smoke was carried away in the gale and, as I slowly
fell backwards, I saw the goose tumble from the sky.
With the pinkfoot safely retrieved and the worst of the mud wiped
from my hands, I placed the precious spent cartridge case in my
pocket and reloaded the gun but, although I waited for another
hour, no more geese came near.
The other gun which Patrick placed in my temporary custody was a
double-barrelled 8-bore manufactured by J & W Tolley. This
piece had two folding leaf sights fitted to the rib of its
34" brown barrels, suggesting that it started life as a
double elephant rifle and had later been bored out to serve as a
wildfowling gun. After my experience with the 4-bore, I decided
to try the Tolley on the clay pigeon range before taking it out
to the geese. Fortunately, I discovered that the weight of the
gun was sufficient to absorb the recoil and it was as comfortable
to shoot as any normal shotgun.
With my initial stock of cartridges expended on the clays, I then
had to track down some more and, following a lead from a notice
in the window of a deserted shop in Auchterarder, found the
redoubtable Alex Kerr proudly installed in new premises in
Crieff. Alex has long been famed for pandering to the needs of
shooting men and had hand-loaded a stock of Eley 8-bore cases so,
after parting with œ7.50, I left his shop clutching 10 new
shells neatly wrapped in a brown paper bag. Why waste money on
fancy cardboard cartons?
To give the Tolley hammer gun a fair trial, I took it for a
morning flight at the Big Loch. There were rumoured to be 9,000
geese in residence so, although I had access to only a few
hundred yards of its 12 mile shoreline, it was a reasonable bet
that one or two might come my way.
At the farm gate I found that Peter and Henry were also out that
morning and they took great interest in the 8-bore. I tried to
explain that its range was not much greater than that of a
12-bore but, secretly, I hoped that its extra firepower might pay
dividends if the pinkfeet were on the tall side.
The two young lads selected positions near the boundary burn in
the hope of getting a few shots at duck before the geese came
off. Their plan was rewarded and, from my own hide 50 yards along
the reed beds, I saw a mallard pay the price for flying too low
on its journey back to the loch from the autumn stubbles. When
the pinks did flight, they came from the far side of the
expansive water and skein after skein passed over well out of
range.
Just as a few days earlier it had been latecomers which gave the
4-bore a chance to prove its worth so, that morning, the main
flight was over before a group of 5 geese approached at a
respectable height. Pulling back both hammers, I sank lower into
the reeds and watched them come. The birds were just about 45
yards high so, with total confidence, I sprang up, swung through
the first goose and pulled the front trigger. Swinging on to
another bird I let the second 2-ounce load of shot fly on its
deadly course. As the deep resonant bass notes of the 8-bore died
away, I watched with disbelief as all 5 pinkfeet wheeled to the
left and carried on flying. Then there was one sharp crack from
Peter's game gun and a goose fell to the ground.
Which only goes to confirm that heavy shot charges are of no
benefit at all if the gun is not pointing in the right direction.
The Tolley was later to earn its pay but more than a fortnight
had elapsed and my stock of ammunition was almost exhausted
before I found the place with it. Nevertheless, there was
something really special about the experience of using those
great fowling pieces. Relics from the annals of bygone times they
might have been but shooting with them provided just a glimpse
back into the days when hardy professional fowlers would risk
starvation if they failed to make every shot count. A tabloid
gossip columnist once described Patrick Keen as a "wealthy
eccentric" - it was to my eternal regret that he was not
sufficiently eccentric to forget to request the return of his
beautiful guns!
This file is an
extract from "Fowler in the Wild" by Eric Begbie. It
may be reproduced, in whole or in part, by magazines or other
publications with the prior permission of the author.
